


True North

by True_North



Series: True North [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Angels, Angst, Bisexual Character, Demon Blood, Demon Blood Addict Sam Winchester, Demons, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Injured Dean Winchester, Injured Sam Winchester, OFC is Bisexual, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Vampires, protective!Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-02-23 08:35:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23441998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/True_North/pseuds/True_North
Summary: It's been 4 months since Dean Winchester was pulled out of Hell. He's heard nothing from the angels since then, and he's kept the nightmares at bay by hunting himself into exhaustion and drowning himself in cheap whiskey when his brain won't shut off. Sam is disappearing for hours at a time, leaving in the middle of the night and coming back at the crack of dawn. Dean made his brother promise before he was dragged to Hell that he wouldn't go down the road of using his freaky ESP powers, but he's not so sure Sam kept that promise. He has no idea why he was brought back or what the hell God wants with him, so he turns his attention to what he does best - he hunts.Ciara McKenna is a former trauma nurse turned Hunter based out of Clearwater County, Minnesota. She might be a hunter like her father, but make no mistake, she's NOT your average beer-slamming, chain-smoking, small-town American Hunter. When she returns home after a long hunt in Kansas City, she's expecting to relax at home with her familiar, Kathel, and some Jack Daniels. She isn't expecting to have to pull the Winchesters half-dead out of a vamp nest, and she most certainly isn't expecting to have them snowed in with her for several days while they heal...
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s)
Series: True North [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1686403
Comments: 23
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated! This is the first fic I've ever written, so please please PLEASE tell me what you think! 
> 
> Much thanks to my kick-ass betas!
> 
> *Warnings for canon-typical violence*

**Chapter 1**

Clearwater County, MN

January 15th, 2009

**Dean**

God fucking damn it all to hell.

Anna and Marissa Hopp had already been missing for a day, and Dean was seething. The girls were young - just eleven and fourteen. They’d been abducted on their way home from school. Dean knew why the vamps had taken them; virgin blood was sweet, so they said, and buying the silence of a child was easier than people thought.

“ _If you scream, I’ll hurt your sister...if you cry, I’ll kill your mother._ ” Throw in the threat of the edge of a blade, and all you had to worry about was keeping the brats alive long enough to drain them to the bone.

So help him God, if they’d bled the girls dry already, he was going to make every last one of these sons of bitches burn before he took their heads.

Dean readied his machete in one hand and a syringe of dead man’s blood in the other as he crept down the narrow road leading up to the house. The cold had him aching everywhere, and it wasn’t just the numbness settling into his toes from the snow beneath his feet or the wind slicing through his ribcage. He could feel every broken bone splinted too quickly in a motel bathroom, every bullet dragged from his body with pliers and every joint forced back into its socket with a white-knuckle grip on the edge of the sink. He hadn’t yet reached thirty, but Dean was a seasoned soldier in his own right, and cold like this made him feel ancient.

When the dim outline of a rundown cabin came into view, Sam silently swerved off to the side to circle around back. Dean crept up onto the porch, silently praying to whatever piss-poor excuse for a God was out there that the creak of the ancient wood beneath his boots had been drowned out by the rising wind or muffled by the quickly growing snowdrifts.

But when had a Winchester ever caught a break?

The fight was over fast. As soon as he picked the lock and crept inside, the door slammed shut behind him and there were two of them on him. He had one bloodsucker on his back clawing at his chest and trying to tear into his neck, and another in front landing a punch across his face that could have crumbled cinder block. He swept his machete through the neck of the one in front, but his blade lodged in its spine and he wasted too much time jerking it free - _Stupid, stupid, fucking stupid_ \- and they were on him. His left shoulder burst from its socket in a bright shock of pain that overrode the sharp heat of fangs in his neck. Dean fought back hard, but his machete had gone skittering across the floorboards at some point and the combined weight of the vampires nearly forced him down to one knee.

After that, it was all blood and heat and pain. Dean’s world narrowed to the fight. He got an arm free and managed to slam the hypodermic needle into one vamp’s neck, blood slick thumb slipping over the plunger and driving it home, but no sooner had he incapacitated one than another appeared to take its place. Sam was screaming his name, and he couldn’t move, couldn’t _get to him_.

He staggered, hit the floor, heard the meaty crack of his own skull connecting with wood. Bright, hot pain pooled rapidly across the back of his head and oh, _fuck_ , this was it. He tried to cry out for Sammy because _God, please, don’t let him die alone, not like this_ , but he couldn’t suck in enough air to scream, and -

An unholy growl tore from the throat of the massive black beast that crouched in the open doorway against a backdrop of bloodspattered snow, and he knew they’d come back for him, back to _drag him to Hell_ , and -

A face hovered over him. It was like what he used to believe angels looked like, years before Castiel. Back when his mom held him close in the butter-yellow glow of his race car night light and whispered “Baby, angels are watching over you,” - dark eyelashes, freckles like stars splashed across pale skin, pink lips and warm breath and -

**Ciara**

_Fuck_.

The hunter at her feet was unresponsive, but his pulse was strong beneath her fingers. Blood gleamed in dark puddles around him that dripped between the floorboards. Ciara had a sickening feeling that too much of it was coming from him, and not the three headless vampires littering the floor. Grimly, she rose to her feet, hefted her ax into the air and sent it hurtling down towards an incapacitated vamp with the glint of an empty syringe poking out of its neck. Metal cleaved through muscle and bone, down into the wood beneath with a satisfying _thunk_ and the vampire’s head rolled to the side, cleanly separated from the body.

Including the two she and Kathel had found outside, that made six down.

A wicked snarl tore out of the darkness to her left, and before she could react, a huge black form barreled past her. A body hit the floor not four feet away, the snap of jaws silencing a shriek of pain. Ciara grimaced at the wet tearing sounds that came out of the darkness, but when they subsided a head rolled out of the shadows to her feet. Kathel padded out of the darkness a moment later, a sticky path of massive, bloody paw prints trailing behind him and blood dripping from his muzzle.

Seven down.

A thump at the back of the house caught their attention. Kathel disappeared back into the darkness and Ciara crept after him, eyes and ears sharpened for any sign of movement. Adrenaline beat hot and quick in her throat, and she bit back the fear the best she could and shifted the ax in her grip.

As she crept closer, she heard them.

In the pitch black through Kathel’s eyes, she saw them.

Bodies littered the floor. Two young girls, both with the same bright hair and freckles, dead with their arms around each other and their throats torn out. A man who looked to be in his late fifties, eyes wide open in a silent prayer to a God who wasn’t listening, completely drained with a blood-spattered wedding ring on his left hand. A tall, dark skinned girl in a hand-knit sweater, no older than eighteen with mascara streaked down her cheeks and and a gold cross around her neck, dead for days by then. There were more, but Ciara ignored them _because the one at the back was still alive_.

Three vamps knelt over a massive body, already glutted with blood but too deep in their frenzy to stop. Two headless bodies were sprawled beside the back door, clearly the work of the man currently being drained. Kathel snarled and launched himself across the room, bowling one vamp over and tearing into its throat before it had time to scream. Ciara lunged after him and her ax bit deep into the neck of the second vamp, separating the head from its body in one clean strike and biting deep into the doorframe on the other side. The impact jarred her shoulders and - _fuck_!

Long lines of pain lit up Ciara’s arms and shoulders, and she hit the ground hard. She struggled, tried desperately to get to the dead man’s blood in her pocket, but the vamp was straddling her hips and her arms were pinned to the blood-slick floor. There was a crushing, blinding pain where her shoulder met her neck, and Ciara let out a choked scream, clenching her teeth on the taste of salt and blood and sweat.

She vaguely registered a hot, metallic splatter across her face, blinding her momentarily before her eyes flew wide open at the white hot pain of something _tearing_ in her shoulder. The vamp’s head hung at an unholy angle, shuddering with blank eyes and a slack jaw. Ciara slammed her mouth shut instinctively against the downpour of the creature’s blood, knowing it would turn her if she swallowed it. Kathel, silent and focused but with all the fury of the January blizzard raging outside, stood above her with his teeth clamped tight through the throat of the last vamp. He tightened his grip and Ciara heard the crack of bone between his jaws through the haze of pain before she registered the vampire’s blood pooling on her chest.

Kathel dragged the vamp off her, and Ciara let the world come back into focus around her before she rolled to her knees and crawled to the man on the ground.

 _Shit_.

He was alive and breathing, but only just. There was no way to know how much blood he’d lost, but even in the shadowed cabin he looked pale. Deep gashes covered his body.

 _Fuck_.

Ciara shut her eyes and leaned back on her heels. She flattened her hands against the floorboards - not the earth itself, but it would do. The deep breaths she took sent pain shooting through her shoulder, and she gritted her teeth. Her brow furrowed and she forced herself to focus, to reach deep into the earth, to seek out the ley line that ran miles below the bedrock. She drew the power deep into her core, offering a silent promise - _I’ll give it back and more, I swear it_ \- and breathed it in until she was thrumming with energy, raw and potent in its pure form but imperfect in its unpredictability. The pain in her shoulder washed away in its wake. Though the blood spilling from the wound slowed, it did not cease.

When she opened her eyes, they flared gold and sparks danced at her fingertips.

Centered, strong, focused, she gripped a fistful of Kathel’s fur and pulled herself to her feet. She rested a hand on his head, surveying the room.

 _Make sure there aren’t any more of these godawful bloodsucking bastards around, and see if we can find a way to get these two out of here before the storm really kicks in_.

Understanding flashed through the bond Ciara shared with her familiar. Kathel padded out of the room, paws tacky with drying blood. She doubted there were more vamps than the ones she’d seen, but she couldn’t afford another attack. In the meantime, she hovered a hand over the deeper wounds the second hunter had suffered and sent tendrils of that thrumming coil of raw earth power to stem the flow of blood. Holding onto so much power was exhausting, especially in her current state, but she knew she had to temper it or risk overloading the hunter’s body with energy he wasn’t accustomed to.

Satisfied for the time being, she turned and moved back up the hallway to the first hunter, finding him still unconscious. He had a steady respiratory rate and his pulse was stronger than his partners. A quick tendril of power sent through his body told her that the head injury was not as serious as she’d first feared. He’d have a bitch of a concussion when he woke up, but there shouldn’t be any lasting damage.

Reluctantly, she left both hunters where they lay and left the cabin, trekking through the howling wind out to the main road where she’d left her truck. There was no use trying to dig the Impala out. That would have to be done after the blizzard was over. She hadn’t even seen any snow tires on it. Where the hell were these boys _from_ , anyway? Trying to survive a storm like this in _leather jackets_ with hiking boots and no snow tires? _Dumbasses_.

In the end, it took an old sled on runners salvaged from the back porch, a burst of energy that left Ciara weak-kneed and trembling at its sudden loss, and Kathel’s immense strength to haul the second hunter into her backseat. Weakening rapidly now, Ciara was thankful the man at the front was smaller than his partner, if not by much - especially since he refused to let Kathel near him. The moment the dog was in his field of view, he thrashed violently, reaching for a blade in what Ciara assumed was an attempt to fight the dog off. Kathel backed away, head tilted in disdain, so Ciara was left to use the last of the energy she’d pulled from the ley line to get him under control and into the truck.

He roused briefly as she hauled him into the passenger side of her truck and slurred together incoherent fragments of sentences, but nothing Ciara could understand. Something about Hellhounds and someone called Sammy, but the rest was incomprehensible. Ciara gritted her teeth long enough to turn her head and spare him one last glance before starting up the truck.

**Dean**

The shrill whistle of a kettle pierced through his skull and rattled around like a pinball machine, jerking him violently out a painless void. He’d been floating in the bliss between consciousness and unconsciousness, vaguely aware of an angel woman with blood on her cheeks and a huge black Hellhound and...vampires?

 _Fuck_.

“Sammy?” he cried out, his own voice harsh and grating to his ears. His vision swam as he tried to take in unfamiliar surroundings. As soon as he sat up, pain exploded across the back of his head. He rolled onto his side, but he realized too late that he’d been lying on the edge of a bed when he hit the ground groaning. Footsteps hammered down the hallway like an enthusiastic drum solo from the world’s worst garage band, but when he tried to clap his hands over his ears only one arm obeyed his command. His left arm flopped uselessly at his side. A door swung open and a vivid, painful light spilled into the room the likes of which he hadn’t seen since Castiel. Dean let out a pained grunt and screwed his eyes shut.

Small, strong hands helped him back into bed, and a face swam into view - the angel woman, he thought, though she wavered in and out of focus. She placed her hand on his forehead and whispered “ _Sleep_ ”, and the pain fell away as if he was sinking deep into a pool of clear, still water. Dean drifted back into that blissful void and let the darkness take over.

The next time he woke it was to a lightning sharp burst of pain in his left shoulder popping back into place. He jerked awake violently, a scream tearing its way out through a tight jaw and clenched teeth.

“Drink this, it’ll help.” A woman’s voice cut through the swirling black fog of pain - soft, tired, but in a tone that said she’d take no shit if Dean tried to be a smartass with her. Dean felt the cool press of a glass into his hands, and he opened his eyes cautiously, squinting as he tried to bring the world into focus.

It looked like whiskey - thank God for small mercies.

Dean drained the glass, pleasantly surprised at the spicy, honey-sweetened flavor. He had been prepared for the sharp burn of cheap booze, not...was that lavender he tasted? But the afterglow - oh, man. He felt like he was floating, but he wasn’t drunk or high - just calm, for the first time in forever. When the woman at his bedside began stitching up his arm and chest where the vamps had ripped through his skin like wet newspaper, he felt nothing at all.

And when she bandaged the wounds and pulled a soft, cool sheet over him, he slipped into a peaceful slumber the likes of which he couldn’t remember having since before he went to Hell.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean wakes up in an unfamiliar bed. It wouldn't be the first time, but he usually doesn't wake up alone on those occasions, and he definitely doesn't wake up with stitches and a concussion.

**Chapter 2**

_ Clearwater County, MN _

_ January 16th, 2009 _

**Dean**

When Dean woke for the third time it was to a dark, unfamiliar bedroom. It wouldn’t have been the first time, but normally he didn’t wake up to an empty bed on those occasions. Memories of the fight speared into his brain when he tried to sit up and felt the new stitches stretch and pull on his chest. His head and shoulder ached, and he noticed another tell-tale pull of stitches from his right arm when he raised a hand to the back of his head. A huge lump sat prominently on the back of his skull. 

_ Vampires...Hellhound...Sam? _

He stood up gingerly, feeling around for the lightswitch or at least a bedside light. Pain bloomed in his left shoulder when he tried to shift his arm, and he realized he’d been put in a sling. When he found the lamp on the bedside table and switched it on, the dim glow was still painfully bright but much more tolerable than he remembered from the first time he’d woken. Dean took in his surroundings slowly, trying not to aggravate his condition. 

A huge window took up most of one wall above a window seat draped with several knit blankets. The walls were painted a soft grey, and two mahogany stained bedside tables matched the huge bed he’d woken up in. Pale grey and deep purple bedding was rumpled from where he’d slept. Bookshelves were crammed full on the wall beside the door, packed with what seemed to be a little bit of everything. Mythology, gardening, and science fiction were interspersed with medical journals, fantasy, and the kind of crappy romance you find for fifty cents a piece in the sale bins of used bookstores. A full length mirror sat next to the closet, and Dean shuffled gingerly past it only to notice that he was wearing someone else’s clothes. He was certain he’d never had a pair of scrub pants before in his life, and the soft black v-neck was  _ definitely _ not his. 

He opened the door to hear a hiss of pain from down the hall, and that got him moving. 

“Sammy?” he called out, his voice hoarse and raw. The light was still painfully bright, and the hallway seemed to be shifting in and out of focus...shit. Dean knew these symptoms. He had a friggin’ concussion. 

“No, wait - don’t come out here, just a minute!” It was the same voice he’d heard earlier, the one that had belonged to the woman who’d given him that honey thing that had him so zonked out. Dean kept moving down the hallway before he registered what she’d said, but by the time he realized he should turn around -  _ oh.  _

She sat with her back to him on a deep green couch, naked from the waist up and illuminated from one side by the lamp casting a soft yellow glow over her shoulder. Long, cinnamon-brown hair had been swept over one shoulder, revealing an intricate tattoo of roses down her spine. Even from here Dean could see the flashes of deep red ink in the firelight and the harsh, ugly gleam of scar tissue that spoke of a hunter’s life.The woman’s head was turned towards her left shoulder, where Dean could see a curved needle piercing through the betadine-smeared skin. Bloody gauze littered the coffee table next to the bottle of Jack Daniel’s and the glass with a finger of whiskey still settled at the bottom. At the sound of his footsteps, she flicked her gaze back, careful not to move her shoulder or neck. 

“Oh - just give me a few minutes, just gotta finish patching myself up first.” She pulled the needle through and made the thread taught, and Dean saw the muscles in her back tense as she did. She let out another quiet hiss of pain. 

“Need a hand?” The words came out of his mouth before he’d even thought them through. She laughed anyway, a warm, rich sound that sent heat through Dean’s body like a shot of bourbon. God help him, he wanted to hear it again. 

Dean might have had a concussion and stitches out the ass, but he was still a red-blooded American male, and concussion be damned, her laugh was doing things for him. 

“Not from you, I don’t. That’s a nasty lump on the back of your head. I’d be surprised if your concussion wasn’t fucking up your depth perception right now. Wanna give me a couple minutes to finish this up and I’ll come see you when I’m done?” She carefully pierced the needle through the skin again as she spoke, the pain straining her last words and forcing a soft “ _ Motherfucker.”  _ from her battle-weary body. 

“Yeah, yeah, wait, just - where’s my brother? Is he okay?” Dean braced himself against the wall as he spoke, his vision blurring. The woman stilled, and her brow furrowed slightly before she spoke. Dean felt his heart skip a beat at her reaction - God, if Sammy wasn’t okay -

“The guy who was around back? He’s resting for now. You can see him once I’m done here. He’s stable for now, which is good, but he had the shit kicked out of him by the vamps. He lost a lot of blood, which is why he’s resting, but he should be okay in a few days.” She pulled the thread taut again, and took a deep breath, turning her head slightly to glance back at Dean. “If it helps, I’m a trauma nurse. Or...I was, before I started doing this.” 

Dean let his breath out in a whoosh. Sam was okay. They’d survived. He muttered his thanks to the woman on the couch before shuffling back down the hall, opting to sit on the windowsill of the bedroom he’d woken up in. The alarm clock on the bedside table told him it was 1:34am. He leaned his head back against the wall, wincing and shifting as the bump on his head made contact with the wood, and watched the snow fall. 

Thirty minutes later, the woman knocked softly on the open door. She’d showered and changed into a plain green t-shirt over battered red flannel pajama pants, and Dean could see the edge of a clean white bandage disappearing beneath the fabric. 

“Ready to go see your brother?” She asked. Dean nodded, wincing at the slight pain in his head. The woman narrowed her eyes at the motion. “Want some Advil for the pain?” 

“I’m fine. Let’s go.” The woman raised an eyebrow, evidently frustrated with his denial of the painkiller, and held the door open for him, motioning him to a door cracked open on the other side of the hall. She pushed it open gently. Sam was propped up on several pillows in a daybed that barely looked big enough to hold his huge frame, unconscious and eerily pale. 

“When we found you two at the Larson place, you were just passing out. I think you had just hit your head. Sam was unconscious at the back of the house. He’d taken out two vamps, but my best guess is they swarmed him. There were three of them on him by the time we got to him, and there’s no way to know how much blood he lost.” The woman pulled down the quilt and sheet covering Sam. Dean’s throat clenched. His little brother’s body was nearly covered in bandages - most worryingly a huge one on the side of his neck and another on the inside of his thigh. 

“He needed a total of 41 stitches, but I think he’ll pull through well enough. A lot of the lacerations were superficial, so they weren’t super deep. The ones on his thigh and neck are the ones I’m the most worried about, and he should avoid moving too much for the next several days to let them heal without tearing them open trying to walk around.” The woman pulled the blankets up over his brother again, tucking them around his brother with a tenderness that surprised Dean. 

“It took me a few hours to patch him up, but I managed. I gave him something to help him sleep for awhile, and I’ll probably keep him under for a few days to give his body time to heal.” 

Dean nodded dumbly, swaying slightly where he stood. The woman noticed the motion and reached out to steady him with gentle hands at his back and waist. Dean was surprised to find that he didn’t find himself moving away from her touch. 

“How about you go rest and I’ll bring you something to eat and something for the pain?” She asked gently, her hands still soft and warm through the fabric of Dean’s shirt. 

“Nah, nah, I’m good. I’m actually pretty wired right now, believe it or not. You know how it is after a fight like that.” Truth was, Dean would love some painkillers, but he needed to stay sharp, stay awake and make sure Sammy was okay. And if he tried to sleep, well...he knew he wouldn’t get lucky enough to have a dreamless sleep the second time around, too. 

The nurse raised her eyebrow again. 

“Suit yourself. If you decide you want company, I’ll be in the kitchen.” She turned away and started heading back into the hallway before she suddenly stopped and turned back, grimacing as the movement pulled at the new stitches in her neck. 

“I’m Ciara, by the way, in case you need anything. Ciara McKenna.” 

Dean gave her a half smile. “Dean - and since he can’t introduce himself, that’s my brother Sam.” 

**Ciara**

Ciara’s smile grew as she cleared the coffee table of bloody gauze and betadine. Even though the circumstances were less than ideal, it felt good to have people in the cabin again. She’d been alone here with Kathel for years it seemed, save the impromptu visit she’d had from Bobby about five months ago. Even then, he’d only showed up looking for help with a tracking spell for a demon - Lilith, if she remembered correctly. She hadn’t heard how that panned out. Hadn’t seen Bobby in person in months, actually.

Then there was Shannon, a friend from when she’d lived down in Rochester that she’d kept in contact with after the move up north to Clearbrook. Shannon used to come up and visit under the guise of “getting away from the city for the weekend” to make sure Ciara wasn’t being a total hermit, but the busier Ciara got with hunting, the less often she was home, and...well, she hadn’t heard from Shannon in months either. 

So it was good to have people around the house, wounded hunters though they were.

And Ciara would be lying her ass off if she said it wasn’t good to do her job again. Her real job anyway, the job she’d had before. She might have been a hunter now, but Ciara was born to be a healer, plain and simple.

The smile faded as Ciara bustled around her kitchen. Her body was drained completely, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep for hours yet. She was pushing it being up and about this late after using up so much energy on healing the brothers, but Ciara knew she needed the time to decompress. She needed time to process the hunt, and though the nightmares would be inevitable, she figured the least she could do for herself was to fall asleep distracted from the carnage she’d seen, refuelled as best she could with food and whiskey and company. 

So she put on more water for the honey and lavender brew and slid a frozen pizza in the oven, and when Dean shuffled out into the kitchen a few minutes later she dimmed the lights to spare him the headache and pulled two beers out of the fridge. The alcohol wasn’t the best thing for his concussion but hell, she knew hunters. Most of them used whiskey as medicine anyway, and a beer or two wouldn’t hurt him. 

“So...you said “we” earlier. You know, when you were talking about how you found me and my brother. Who’s “we”?” Dean asked, a few sips into his beer. Ciara stilled where she was pulling the pizza out of the oven. She set it on a cutting board, shut the oven, and turned around before answering, choosing her words carefully. 

“His name is Kathel,” she started, fishing in a drawer for the pizza cutter. She motioned Dean over to the couch. It had been a long night, after all, and she was ready for the extra comfort. She set the pizza and plates on the coffee table before continuing. “You met him earlier, actually - though you weren’t too fond of him.” 

Dean looked confused. “Oh? I don’t remember meeting anyone.” 

Ciara paused, putting a slice of pizza on her plate. “How do you feel about dogs?”

“Dogs? They’re...fine, I guess...Kathel’s a dog?” 

“He is. He’s in the back room because...well, he can be a pretty intimidating presence. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a total fucking teddy bear around me, but he also hunts with me, and he’s pretty damn good at it.” Ciara took a bite of pizza, watching Dean carefully to gauge his reaction. His brow furrowed, then his eyebrows rose as he processed the information. 

“The Hellhound…” he whispered. “Your dog was the Hellhound!” His eyes grew wide and his body tensed. He instinctively reached for the small of his back where Ciara had found a wicked looking blade etched with what she thought might be Demonic symbols. When he didn’t find it, his breath hitched and he began patting down the pockets of the scrub pants he wore out of habit before realizing he was no longer wearing his bloodstained, shredded jeans. 

His face hardened suddenly, eyes growing sharp and cold. 

“ _ Where is it?”  _

“Bedside table, first drawer with the rest of your gear - no,  _ sit. _ ” She stood, holding out a hand to keep Dean from moving while he glared at her distrustfully. “I’ll go get it for you.”

She made it to the hallway before she stopped, stiffened and turned back around. “Use that knife on my dog, Dean, and I’ll neuter you with it.” She fixed Dean with a scathing glare of her own before she stalked out of the room, ignoring the horror on his face at the threat. 

Moments later, Ciara returned with the blade in hand, along with two smaller knives Dean had had in various pockets. She flipped them in her hands with easy, fluid movements and handed them over handle first. 

“He’s not a Hellhound.” Ciara’s tone was irritable, her voice clipped as Dean took the knives from her. 

“Sure as hell looks like one,” he retorted, turning the blades in his hands. Ciara narrowed her eyes and snorted. 

“Irish wolfhound. Put the knife away and I’ll bring him out...though I should tell you you’re in his spot.” One corner of Ciara’s mouth raised in a half smile at Dean’s obvious discomfort with the last part of her statement. “You’ll be stuck here for the next few days, you may as well get to know each other.” 

  
  


**Dean**

Ciara set off down the hallway, and Dean warily tracked her movement. She stopped at the door at the end of the hallway and swung it open, emitting two sharp clicks with her tongue. Dean heard the shifting of weight creaking over the hardwood floors and the faint click of nails, but that was all the warning he got before what he  _ swore _ was a Hellhound padded back down the hallway at Ciara’s side. The thing was all long legs, hard muscle, coarse black hair, and dark glittering eyes. 

And it was looking straight at him. 

Dean tensed every muscle in his body, ready to bolt and not even processing the twinge of his stitches pulling in his chest. His breath hitched and his eyes flicked back to the Demon blade sitting on the counter, but he stopped when he noticed Ciara’s pointed glare. 

Kathel padded over to the coffee table, more interested in the pizza sitting out than anything else. At Ciara’s order to leave it, he sniffed disdainfully and turned his attention to Dean. 

“Hold out the back of your hand and don’t make eye contact. He won’t hurt you - but you  _ did  _ threaten to stab him, so I’d be a little cautious if I were you.” Dean drew his hand back at the last part of that sentence. 

“How does  _ he _ know that?” Dean asked, eyes flicking suspiciously between Ciara and the hound. Ciara raised an eyebrow and gave a small, mysterious smile. 

“I told him. He didn’t seem to think you’d really do it, and right now he thinks you’re no threat to him...though he is annoyed that you’re in his spot.” Dean looked back at Kathel. He could have sworn the dog tilted his head in agreement with his mistress. Kathel let out another sigh, stood, and padded over to the rug in front of the fireplace. Dean watched as he circled around the rug before thumping down onto the floor with another sigh. Ciara settled back down into her spot on the other side of the couch, curling both feet up underneath her. 

When Kathel had stayed where he was for several minutes and Dean felt more confident he wasn’t going to take a chunk out of his leg, he settled back into the couch and took another bite of pizza. 

“Did the girls make it?” he asked. 

Ciara’s smile dropped. 

“The two little blonde ones? No. None of them did. I called it in, but with this blizzard it’ll be days before anyone can get out there. It was the best I could do, but...that doesn’t make the job any easier.” 

Ciara took a long pull of her beer, glared at it for a moment, swore under her breath and stood up. She returned momentarily with two glasses and the bottle of Jack Daniels, poured two fingers in each and slid one glass over to Dean. He accepted it gratefully. 

“No more than that for you right now. You shouldn’t even be drinking that much -  _ don’t give me that look _ \- but…” Her breath came out in a whoosh and she leaned forward on her knees, staring into the fire. 

“After a night like tonight, I’d hate to drink alone.” Ciara raised her glass to her lips when she finished speaking, downed the whole thing, and set it back on the coffee table. She turned to Dean and raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly at the glass in front of him. 

And as much as Dean resented her whole _“You shouldn’t be drinking when you’re concussed”_ sentiment, the woman who’d just saved both his and his brother’s asses was asking him to have a drink with her, and he wasn’t going to say no to _that_. 

The two of them settled into a long silence after that. The fire was crackling and warm, the room smelled like sweet lavender and amber, and snow was falling thick and deep outside, but the fact remained that they had failed. Sure, they might’ve ganked the nest, but two little girls were still dead. Their mom was probably at home pacing holes in the floor, sick with worry...and she wouldn’t know her babies were gone for days. 

It was all part of the job, and grieving over it wouldn’t help anyone. Dean had known for years that you couldn’t save everyone, had drilled that lesson into Sammy’s head himself...but on nights like this, when he could barely move without tearing stitches and his brother lay half alive in the next room and all they had to show for their failure was a cabin full of bodies and bloodshed, well...sometimes it pissed him off more than he cared to admit. 

“I was on another hunt down in Kansas City.” Ciara broke the silence without breaking her gaze into the fire. “I would’ve been up here, but Bobby Singer sent me down there to check out some demonic omens that turned out to be a whole goddamn nest of the black-eyed freaks. Never seen them group up like that before this last year, but...well...” She turned to face Dean, settling back against a pillow she’d pulled up against the arm of the couch before continuing. 

“I got back earlier this morning and heard about the so-called animal attacks when I went into town for groceries. Called a friend down at the Sheriff's office - Jimmy, you probably met him - and got most of the same info you did. Told me there were a couple of feds in town, and that you’d gone asking around about the old Larson place. I figured I’d check it out, see if you needed backup, but by the time I got out there in all that damned snow...” 

“Hey, I’m glad you did. Sam and I would be toast if you hadn’t shown up. And thanks, you know, for everything else.” He raised his empty glass and gestured to his injured arm. Ciara gave him another half smile and shrugged. The smile was quickly replaced with a grimace when the movement tugged at her stitches. She slipped the neckline of her shirt over her shoulder to check that no fresh blood had seeped through the bandage. 

The movement shouldn’t have caught Dean’s attention as much as it did. Fuck, they were both beaten to hell, and he could barely move without the world spinning out of focus, but he felt a sudden, savage urge to cover that slender collarbone with his mouth and taste the freckles scattered there, and -  _ Dammit Dean, what’s the matter with you _ ? 

He cleared his throat and dragged his gaze to the fireplace.

“We’ll get out of your hair as soon as we can, too. We’ve gotta head back south to meet up with Bobby as soon as Sam’s healed up enough to move. Speaking of which, I should probably check in with him, let him know we made it out alive.”

Ciara nodded and stood, returning momentarily with the landline. Dean nodded his thanks and punched in Bobby’s home number.

**Ciara**

Ciara padded back into the kitchen while Dean spoke, giving him some privacy and the instructions to tell Bobby hey and refrain from pissing off her dog while she was gone. Kathel didn’t seem to think much of the wounded hunter anyway, following her into the kitchen. Ciara poured two glasses of the honey-lavender brew and set one in front of Dean before disappearing back down the hallway to check on Sam. 

She gave his wounds a cursory check, emptied the bedpan beneath him and roused him enough to get him to drink the sweet concoction she’d brought before she touched two gentle, calloused fingers to his forehead and whispered, “ _ Sleep.” _

_ Damn it. _

Ciara’s knees buckled as the last of her energy left her. She sagged heavily against the wall besides Sam’s motionless body.

_ Kathel. _

The huge black beast padded into the room and she gripped a tight fistful of fur at his shoulder, leaning heavily on him as she made her way back out into the living room. Dean stood next to the fireplace, his good shoulder resting against the mantle. Ciara caught the tail end of his conversation with Bobby before he muttered a quick goodbye and hung up the phone at the sight of her. 

“Whoa, hey, hey, easy -” he said, stepping close, his good hand moving to her waist. “Let’s get you into bed, where’s your-” 

“ _ Couch. _ ” She hissed, fighting the darkness at the corners of her vision. “And take your damn medicine and go back to bed.”

She sank heavily onto the couch, glaring at Dean until he picked up the glass and drained it again, rolling the last sip around his mouth like it was his last mouthful of whiskey. Good - he was too tired to argue, too. They’d have plenty of time snowed in and healing over the next several days to argue, she figured.

“So help me God, if you don’t rest up after that concussion, I’ll put Kathel on guard outside your door.” 

Dean sent her a sour look over his shoulder, but the medicine was doing its job and the sleep would take him fast. Good - God only knew they all needed it. She waited until she heard her bedroom door click shut behind him before she flicked a hand at the light switches and fireplace. They dimmed to a pleasant glow without a touch, and she sank into a heavy, dreamless sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciara wakes up to Dean in her kitchen cooking breakfast, which is quite the pleasant surprise. When she checks in on Sam, however, she discovers something that makes her blood run cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my wonderful betas!

**Chapter 3**

_ Clearwater County, MN _

_ January 16th, 2009 _

**Ciara**

Ciara woke to a silent, snow muffled world. Watery, pale light streamed weakly through the windows, though there was still too much snow falling to see the treeline. She stretched, letting out a little groan at the relief that flooded into her muscles after a night spent on the couch, and sat up to check her stitches. No blood through the bandages - good. A series of sharp clicks against the floor announced Kathel’s arrival, no doubt from where he’d taken up residence in the back bedroom. He hopped up on the couch beside her, circled, and rested his head on her thigh.

Ciara knew she should get up and check on Sam and Dean, but Gods, it felt good to just sit here and relax. She sank her fingers into Kathel’s fur, tilted her head back against the back of the couch and closed her eyes. She estimated she’d gotten at least six or seven hours of uninterrupted sleep, but exhaustion still prickled at the back of her eyelids.

She didn’t even realize she’d fallen back asleep when a loud  _ clank _ from the kitchen behind her jolted her awake. Before she could fully comprehend the sound, she had bolted off the couch, blade in hand, and stood crouched between the coffee table and the fireplace. Kathel raised his head off the couch quizzically and Ciara could have sworn she saw him raise an eyebrow. 

Dean stood on the opposite side of the kitchen island, a cast iron pan in one hand and a package of bacon in the other. He sent a sympathetic look her way, but was either kind or tired enough not to comment on the skittishness of her reaction. 

“Bacon and eggs okay for breakfast?” Dean set the pan down on the stove and turned his attention to the coffee maker. Ciara dropped the knife on the coffee table and eased her stance. 

“Yeah, sure - there’s some biscuits in the freezer if you want to get those out too.” 

Dean gave an affirmative jerk of the head and went in search of the biscuits. 

“How’s the concussion?” Ciara pulled two mugs out of the drying rack beside the sink as she spoke. She set them on the counter and sidestepped Dean to pull some creamer out of the fridge. 

“Better. Whatever that honey stuff was really did the trick - what was in that, by the way? You could make a fortune selling it. First time I’ve slept that well in...hell, must be months.” Dean emerged triumphantly with the biscuits and handed them off to Ciara. Her lips quirked up at his question and she turned to the oven.

“Family secret. If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” She lined up a couple of biscuits on a baking sheet and slid it into the oven before pouring a generous amount of creamer into her coffee. She jerked her chin at Dean’s arm, raising the mug to her lips. “And the stitches?” 

Dean flashed her the bandages on his arm and pulled up his shirt. No blood on the ones on his chest, either - good. He didn’t seem to be having too much trouble with the shoulder he’d dislocated either, but every hunter Ciara knew would sooner take on a ghoul with a Swiss army knife than admit how badly something hurt. She’d check his range of motion later - she was already irritated that he’d taken off the sling, but knew there was no point in arguing. 

“You done mother-henning me yet? Not that I’m complaining, but I’ve been doing this my whole life. I’ve had a hell of a lot worse before and been just fine,” Dean griped. “Sam and me, we got things to do. We can’t afford to take time off like this.” He started cracking eggs into the pan as he spoke, his tone mildly disgruntled. Ciara sensed he was more irritated about being stuck here, snowed in and injured, than he was about her care. Still, his tone got under her skin. 

“You’re welcome, by the way,” she snapped. She set her mug on the counter with a heavier clunk than necessary. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but even if your brother wasn’t unconscious right now you’d both be stuck here for days anyway. It’s January in Minnesota, dumbass. This storm’s a bad one. This far north, you’re lucky you didn’t get snowed into your car out there. It’ll be at least a couple days before you can get out of here.” 

Dean scowled out the window at her words, as if he could melt the snow by glaring at it. He knew she was right, but there was nothing he could do about it. 

“Your eggs are burning,” Ciara said, opening a drawer beside her and tossing Dean a spatula. He swore under his breath and turned his attention back to the stove. 

“I’m going to go check on Sam, see if I can get some fluids in him. Pull the biscuits out in ten minutes, would you?” Ciara turned on her heel and marched down the hallway, leaving Dean to finish breakfast. 

Sam’s status had improved from the night before. His color looked better and there was no sign of infection, which was good. He was breathing evenly now, healing faster than Ciara had thought he would even with her treatments of a less-than-medical nature. Frowning slightly, she held a hand a few inches over his body, palm down, fingers splayed wide. She was still exhausted from last night, but it wouldn’t take much of her energy to -  _ there.  _

There was something different about Sam - something in his  _ blood _ . Ciara wasn’t sure he was entirely human. 

What the hell had she gotten herself into? 

Rumors swirled in her mind now. The whispered words of other hunters at the Roadhouse, shut down almost immediately by Ellen and Jo. John Winchester’s boys, the names hushed and revered and feared all at once. These were the men who had opened the gates of Hell, and that right there was enough for the hunter in Ciara to bristle. Dean, last she’d heard, had been dragged to Hell after a deal gone bad. Sam was the one with the price on his head - the one who was maybe never fully human to start with, the one who saw visions and moved things with his mind. 

Ciara knew she wasn’t really one to talk about supernatural abilities, but her power came from a line of witches stretching back to some of the most powerful in Ireland. Earth witches, all of them, who drew their power from the world around them and were born with their talents. To her knowledge, none of them had ever made a demon deal or used their gift for harm, and that was where she drew the line between “good witch” and “bad witch”. 

Sam, though...she’d heard Sam had made a deal with a demon for powers beyond the natural, that he wasn’t even human in the first place. 

The thought unsettled her deeply, and under any other circumstances she’d treat him like the monster he may well be and kill him now, but if Bobby trusted them…

She used more of her power to put him under even deeper. She refused to take any chances until she heard from Bobby. Frowning, she walked into her bedroom (the one currently being occupied by Dean) and rummaged around in her closet until she found the handcuffs she’d etched with several warding runes. When she returned to Sam’s side, she cuffed him to the bed, readied her blade, and reached out to Kathel through the familiar bond. 

_ Get ready. _

  
  


**Dean**

Dean settled into a barstool and eyed the two plates of eggs, crispy bacon and biscuits on the counter. He sipped his coffee and had just forked up his first bite of eggs when Ciara appeared back in the kitchen. Dean shoved a plate towards her, gesturing at it with his fork. 

“Peace offering. You were right. Sorry for being a dick, it’s just...this thing me and Sam have got going on, it’s pretty important, so -” 

“You mean like cleaning up that whole apocalypse mess you started?” Ciara’s tone was casual on the surface, but it made Dean’s blood run cold. He tensed instantly and swallowed hard.

“You’re the Winchesters,” she said in that same clipped tone, and Dean knew at that moment that he wasn’t the only one ready for a fight. Ciara held a wicked-looking knife deceptively loosely in her hand, and her posture, while easygoing to the untrained eye, told him that she could probably have him on the ground before he could slide out of the barstool. Dean might have had a size advantage, but he knew Ciara  _ had _ to be fast. She wouldn’t have survived as a hunter this long if she wasn’t. 

And from what Bobby had told him last night, she was a force to be reckoned with. 

“Look - okay, yes, we’re the Winchesters. I’m Dean Winchester. Sam is in the other room -” he cut off suddenly as a horrible thought flashed across his mind. 

“Your brother’s fine. He’s sedated and I cuffed him to the bed.” Ciara said harshly. Dean’s moment of panic subsided, but his shoulders remained tense as she strode towards him. 

“You, on the other hand...you’re supposed to be dead.” Ciara said, meeting his eyes steadily. Dean bit back a sharp retort. He and Sam were in deep shit already - if this didn’t play over well, they’d be snowed in for days beat ten ways from Sunday with a seriously pissed off hunter. He opened his mouth to explain, but Ciara cut him off.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen - you’re going to sit right where you are with both your hands on the counter where I can see them. Don’t pull a knife or a gun on me - Kathel doesn’t take threats lightly. I’m calling Bobby Singer, and unless he can convince me otherwise, I’m not trusting either of you.” 

She clicked her tongue again, and Kathel paced around the kitchen island, hackles up and dark eyes damn near glowing. He took a stance between Dean and Ciara, rumbling low in his chest. Ciara kept her blade on her and backed towards the mantle where Dean had set the landline down last night when he’d gotten off the phone with Bobby. 

Dean thanked whatever God was out there that Bobby picked up on the first ring. 

“ _ Singer. _ Why the  _ fuck  _ are you working with the Winchesters?!” Ciara never broke eye contact while she spat the question into the phone. Dean heard a garbled reply that sounded suspiciously like  _ balls.  _ Ciara and Dean both remained silent, Dean straining to hear the rest of Bobby’s reply.

“What do you mean, why shouldn’t you? Because they opened the gates of Hell? Because Sam is supposed to be working for a  _ demon? _ Any of this ringing a bell, you old jackass?” Ciara’s eyes narrowed at Bobby’s response - she was obviously not pleased with whatever he’d come back with.

“That’s entirely different, and you know it. I  _ felt _ something, Bobby - something’s not right with Sam, and last I heard Dean was riding bitch seat to Hell.  _ Bobby, who the hell is sitting at my counter? _ ” 

Dean opened his mouth to retort, but Kathel let out a warning growl that damn near made him piss himself. Damn dog. He missed whatever Bobby said next, but when he looked up next, Ciara had her back to him. One arm was raised up on the mantle of the fireplace and she leaned heavily against the stonework. The conversation seemed quiet on her end for the next several minutes, and eventually she began pacing around the living room letting out occasional hums of affirmation. At one point she stopped, turned back to look at Dean, tossed her knife on the coffee table and went straight back to pacing. Dean let out a sigh of relief, short-lived when he realized that Kathel hadn’t moved an inch. 

After what felt like an eternity, Ciara said her goodbyes and set the phone on the counter. 

“So... you convinced?” Dean asked cautiously, forking up a bite of cold eggs and bacon.

Ciara nodded. “He explained everything. The Gates of Hell, Lilith, your stint downstairs, the angel that brought you back topside. Everything.” 

“And?” 

“And if you want, I’m on your side.” She raised her eyes to him, and Dean was surprised to find that the intensity of her expression hadn’t diminished at all, but now...God help him, it did all sorts of things to him, gave him thoughts he hadn’t had since before he went down under. He’d been so focused on Lilith and Sam and the fact that a friggin’ Angel had dragged him out of Hell that he hadn’t given more thought to a woman than a half-formed fantasy in the shower since he came back topside. Something in the fierceness he saw in every line of Ciara’s face stirred up urges in the back of his mind that he shouldn’t have had. 

It  _ so _ didn’t help that he’d always been a sucker for brown eyes. 

Ciara, for her part, raised one eyebrow and gave him one of those little half smiles, and a tidbit from his conversation with Bobby last night caught at the forefront of his brain.

_ “She...knows things, Dean. She’s a hunter, and a damn good one, but she’s got a gift, you might say. Goes beyond what’s normal, even for us.” _

A gift indeed. Dean wasn’t convinced she couldn’t read his mind right then. 

And here he was, about to pop a semi like a fourteen-year-old over some goddamn  _ eye contact _ . 

“I’m going to take the handcuffs off your brother, and when I get back we can heat up breakfast and you can tell me what the hell is going on with him. I wasn’t lying to Bobby, Dean - something isn’t right. He’s not...completely...” 

Dean sighed heavily, all less than professional thoughts of Ciara gone from his mind. 

“Human.” He passed a hand over his face and rubbed the back of his neck. 

“Human,” she agreed. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After breakfast, things settled down as much as could be expected for having the Winchesters in her home. Which really wasn't much, to be honest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to get up! Thank you so much to everyone for the comments and kudos - I read them all! Here's the next chapter!

**Chapter 4**

_ Clearwater County, MN _

_ January 16th, 2009 _

**Ciara**

After breakfast, things settled down as much as could be expected for having the Winchesters in her home. As promised, Ciara took the handcuffs off of Sam and woke him enough to get some nutrients in him. She had to pull hard from her dwindling energy to put him back to sleep. It seemed to take more and more effort every time she did, but she figured by tomorrow he’d be awake of his own accord and well on the way to recovery. 

Exhausted again, Ciara moved back out to the living room where Dean sat hunched over a battered looking leather journal. She pulled her plate towards her, grateful to find that Dean had reheated the meal while she’d been caring for Sam, and took a long sip of her coffee. She grimaced. It was cold now, but still better than nothing, especially if she kept draining herself like this. Besides, she’d been a nurse - she was used to cold coffee.

“So...your brother,” she began. Dean looked up from his reading and repositioned himself on the couch. 

“I wish I knew what to tell you. He’s not the same as before I went down. Kid barely sleeps, barely eats, and he’s not even showing it. He’ll disappear in the middle of the night and come back at like 5 in the friggin’ morning, and I just…” Dean sighed. “I don’t want him going down that road again.”

Ciara ate as he spoke, mulling over what Bobby had told her the night before in light of this new information. Eventually, she swallowed her last bite thoughtfully and stood to clear her plate. 

“How much do you know about me, Dean?” she asked, keeping her tone neutral and her eyes fixed on the plate she was scrubbing. Dean shifted on the couch to look back at her, raising his eyebrows at the change in topic. 

“Not much, honestly - just what you and Bobby have told me,” he said, shrugging. He grimaced at the movement and Ciara narrowed her eyes at him before she set the plate in the drying rack and began rummaging around the cabinets for painkillers.

“And what did Bobby tell you?” she asked, setting the bottle on the counter. Dean shifted when she met his eyes - hesitating, uncertain. 

“He said you had a gift. Said it went beyond what’s normal, even for us. He said you know things, that if we were gonna be dumb enough to get snowed in anywhere while we’re trying to track down angels and figure out what the hell is going on, at least we got snowed in with you.” 

Ciara snorted and stood on her toes to fetch a glass down from a shelf. She hissed at the stretch to her stitches and the bruises on her ribs and snatched her arm back down to her side, glaring mutinously at the glasses just out of her reach. Before she could reach back up, a sudden warmth pressed against her side, smelling like coffee and leather and spice. Dean stood next to her, reaching the glasses with ease with a soft, teasing smirk on his face. 

Ciara had seen nearly every inch of Dean laid bare before her last night, but that had been something clinical, something necessary. Now, in the weak winter sun streaming in the windows, she saw him,  _ really _ saw him for the first time. Freckles and rough stubble met soft green eyes and absolutely sinfully soft lips, and  _ Gods, _ the feel of his body crowded up against hers stirred up a warmth in her belly she couldn’t remember feeling since Lyssa. 

Ciara slanted her eyes down and muttered her thanks. A blush rose in her cheeks at the brush of Dean’s calloused fingers on hers when she took the glasses from him. If he noticed, he didn’t say anything. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop him from grumbling over the painkillers she handed him. 

“If you won’t take them for the pain, at least take them for the swelling, damn it.” Ciara finally told him firmly. When he’d finally swallowed them (Ciara did  _ not _ notice the bead of water that lingered at the corner of his mouth or the movement of his tongue darting out to catch it), she sighed and picked up her coffee on the way to the couch. She tucked her feet up under her and pulled a blanket over her legs before she returned to the topic at hand. 

“Bobby wasn’t entirely wrong with what he told you about me. I do have what you could call a gift, and it does go beyond what’s normal, but that’s just scratching the surface of it.” Ciara absently gazed into the unlit fireplace as she spoke. Better to get it over with, she supposed. 

“I’m a witch, Dean,” she said, and the fireplace roared to life. 

**Dean**

“I’m a witch, Dean.” 

Dean stared at her, mouth working soundlessly over words he couldn’t get out. He’d have laughed, but he’d just watched the woman start a fire just by looking at it and besides, who knew what she’d make the damned hulking beast of a dog do if he did. Everything slammed into place - the way she’d forced him into sleep, the whole psychic mind-reading shit, and -  _ fuck _ , she’d given him a goddamn  _ potion _ and he’d drunk the whole thing like some kind of idiot. 

“A witch - you’re a - well that’s just fucking great, I’m stuck in here with a fucking  _ witch _ . Wanna tell me how that’s supposed to work, considering you’re supposed to be one of the  _ good guys?!”  _

Well, shit - there had to have been a better response than  _ that _ . Ciara turned to him with a stony expression on her face. 

“Need I remind you you’re in  _ my house _ , Dean?” There was an edge to her voice, a glint to her eyes that hadn’t been there before that invoked images of flames and bronze and blood. Dean steeled himself - the woman was more dangerous than she’d let on. Had Bobby known about this?

“You’re telling me you’re a fucking  _ witch _ , what the fuck am I supposed to think?!” he spat. A log snapped loudly in the fireplace and sparks danced in the corner of his vision. Ciara glared at him, and he did a double take when he realized the intensity of her gaze had ramped up tenfold. Her irises shone gold, and he knew without a doubt that she couldn’t be all human. 

He startled them both when he flinched at a spark landing on his shoulder, scorching through the fabric and leaving a stinging welt on his skin. The movement was more painful than he expected, and he grunted in pain, swearing under his breath. The effect was instantaneous - when he looked back up, Ciara’s eyes had gone back to the honey-brown he’d noticed earlier. The sparks were gone, and much of the anger had gone out of her face, replaced instead with irritation. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. Was saving your ass not enough for you?” she snapped, scooping up her coffee and tucking herself more firmly into the couch. “I’m an earth witch, Dean. Drop the fucking prejudice. You’re open to the idea that literal  _ demons _ can be helpful, but witches can’t?” 

Dean opened his mouth to reply, but she cut him off. 

“For fuck’s sake, that spell Bobby used to track down Lilith came from me! Or did you think some old jackass from South Dakota learned how to track a demon like that working in a salvage yard?” She glowered into her coffee. 

“Hey, Ciara, look - you’re right, I’m sorry. I just - you hear witch, you think -” Dean started. 

“You think psychotic soccer mom hellbent on taking first place in the PTA bake-off?” Ciara snorted. “No. I come from a long, long line of witches, Dean. The coven my mom came from is Irish - old magic, and every one of them is born with it. You can’t make a deal for the kind of power we have. Demons can’t work the ley lines like we can.” 

“Ley lines? Those things are real?”

Ciara hummed in affirmation and nodded, sipping her coffee. She grimaced, and before Dean could ask about the ley lines again she dipped a finger into her mug and swirled it around. She glanced at him sideways and popped her finger in her mouth absently, and  _ damn it,  _ Dean could have sworn she knew exactly what she was doing to him. 

When he tore his eyes away from her mouth, he was surprised to see tendrils of steam rising from the mug. Ciara winked at him.

“Perks of being a witch,” she smirked, and uncurled herself from the blankets. She stood and began walking down the hallway. 

“Coming?” she tossed over her shoulder. Dean groaned and stood up to follow her. They passed the bedroom he’d slept in last night (Ciara’s bedroom, she mentioned) and the guest room Sam was in along with the bathroom Dean had showered in this morning. The back bedroom was the last door along the hallway, and Ciara seemed to steel herself before she opened the door. 

“This...this used to be my bedroom. Well...mine and my wife’s.” Dean raised his eyebrows at that. Wife, huh? Guess she hadn’t been interested after all. 

The room they stood in was larger than Dean was expecting, with huge windows and a fireplace on one wall. Part of the ceiling and the parts of the walls Dean could see were painted with a graceful, arching depiction of the Tree of Life. The mural edged behind bookshelves overflowing in a way that reminded Dean sharply of Bobby’s house. He could see the hunter’s den in every inch of the room. Books with cracked spines and yellowed pages, their pages marked with bits of paper and receipts, lay scattered haphazardly over a broad, solid table crowded up against one window. Another table sat closer to the fireplace, this one littered with copper bowls, a mortar and pestle, and sprigs of lavender. Dean wasn’t surprised to catch the lingering lavender-amber-honey scent of the brew he’d been given last night. 

Ciara had said this used to be her bedroom, but the only furniture in here aside from the tables and chairs were the bookshelves lining the walls. There was no bed, no dresser, nothing else to indicate anyone had ever slept here. 

“Used to be, huh? Your wife doesn’t sleep here any more?” he said without thinking. Ciara stilled with her back to him where she’d been clearing some books off the table by the window. She ran a hand through her hair before she turned back to face him. 

“Everyone gets into hunting somehow, right?” she said, forcing the casual tone in her voice. She cleared her throat and pulled out a chair for him, motioning for him to sit while she worked. 

“I’m sorry.” Dean said simply. He never knew what to say to those kinds of things - that was Sam’s thing. He had never been good at being the shoulder to cry on. 

“It’s okay. It was a few years ago now. Well, she wasn’t officially my wife, it isn’t legal up here yet, but...in every way that mattered, you know?” She gave him a small smile before she turned to some jars on a shelf beside the fireplace. 

“Vampires,” she continued. “4 years ago. Lyssa, she was… God, we hadn’t even been married a year. They took her and my mom while I was at work.” She set two of the jars on the table in front of her with the sprigs of lavender and gestured to the mural arching overhead. 

“This was all her. She was an artist…” Ciara trailed off, and Dean glanced up at the silence, about to prompt her to continue. The words caught in his throat at the intensity of the expression on her face. She was looking at the ceiling like she was searching for reason among the intricately, lovingly painted branches, like if she focused hard enough she could find redemption in the legacy of her wife’s careful hands. The silence stretched on, but Dean was hesitant to break it. He dropped his gaze awkwardly to the floor, not wanting to intrude, and took a step over to the chair. Ciara started at the movement and glanced over at him sheepishly before turning her attention back to the jars on the table. 

“Anyway, back to the whole witch thing - that’s how I knew something was different about your brother. I can use my gift to…” she trailed off again, staring at the ingredients on the table with the tip of her tongue poking out between her lips. She picked up a jar labelled White Willow and sprinkled a small amount of the coarse powder into a bowl. Dean was surprised to find that he didn’t mind watching her work. Her hands were quick and deft, healer’s hands with long fingers and short nails. It was surprising to see so much precision from a hunter. She stripped the lavender of their buds efficiently, crushing them between her fingertips and scattering the fragments into the bowl. He didn’t even notice he’d been staring until she started speaking again. 

“I can use my gift to sense things - sort of like scanning for abnormalities,” she said, spooning a healthy drizzle of honey into the bowl. “Sam’s healing faster than he should be, which...shouldn’t be possible. I couldn’t tell exactly what was going on, but he’s got something  _ potent  _ in his blood. There’s something there that’s not entirely human.” 

“I know,” Dean sighed. “Bobby probably told you about the whole freaky ESP thing, right?” 

Ciara nodded. “I’ve heard stories.” 

“We think it’s something to do with that, but we’re just not getting anywhere. Y’know, he was supposed to lead some demon army before I took a trip down south, and when I got back…” Dean trailed off and passed a hand over his face. “An’ now it’s been 4 months since I came back topside, and we still don’t know jack shit about any of it. The friggin’ angels pulled me out of the pit and then fucked off to God knows where, and I still don’t know what’s going on with Sam.” 

“All I could figure is it was something in his blood,” Ciara mused, leaning back against the table. 

“Demonic?” Dean asked, hating that he already knew the answer. 

Ciara nodded grimly. 

**Ciara**

After she finished the first part of the brew, Ciara brought the bowl back out to the kitchen with Dean trailing behind her. She absently set a kettle to boiling and eyed the glasses on the shelf above her before settling for a clean mug drying in the dish rack, too exhausted to strain her shoulder again. It wasn’t like she’d  _ minded _ having Dean crowded up against her to reach the glasses earlier. Hell, she’d be lying if she said her imagination hadn’t run with it. Urges to touch him, to  _ taste _ him, were already stirring up hot and dirty in the back of her mind. 

Still...she wasn’t sure she was ready for those urges. 

Sure, it had been a few years since she’d lost Lyssa, but that kind of hurt didn’t heal fast. Ciara, of all people, knew that healing from trauma wasn’t linear. She glanced over at Dean, who had settled on the couch with the same battered leather journal he’d been poring over earlier. She narrowed her eyes at him when he absently rubbed his injured shoulder, wincing as he did so. 

_ Goddess save me from idiot Hunters. _ She  _ knew _ he hadn’t gotten enough rest!

Ciara turned back to the kettle and made a sudden decision. She held her hand over the kettle and sent a small pulse of energy into it, just enough to set the water boiling quicker. She plucked another mug from the drying rack, hissing at the pull in her stitches, and spooned more of the honey-lavender mixture into it. Once she had added the boiling water to both mugs, she set one in front of Dean on the coffee table and ignored the indignant noise he made. 

“Come on, I’m fine, This stuff just drains me, makes me exhausted, and -”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re not going anywhere today, isn’t it?” Ciara interjected pointedly, sipping from her own mug. “Like it or not, if you want to heal, you need to rest.” She gestured towards her bedroom as she spoke. Dean glared mutinously at the mug in front of him and turned to argue, but he seemed to soften when he saw the dark circles under her eyes. 

“Nah, I’m not gonna take over your bed again. You go rest in there, I’ll be fine out here,” he insisted. Ciara snorted and drained her mug. Between the power she’d drawn on last night and this morning and her injuries, she was fading fast and therefore  _ not  _ in the mood to argue.

“Nice try. Not with that shoulder and concussion. Into the bedroom you go,” she retorted. Dean scowled at her. 

“Don’t think I haven’t seen you trying to pretend your stitches aren’t killing you either,” he said sullenly, picking up the mug and drinking from it seemingly without realizing. Ciara softened at his concern. 

“Once I rest, I’ll be doing better. I’m not backing down on this, so you might as well just make this easier on both of us and go get in the damn bed,” she said gently enough to set him at ease but firmly enough to make him listen. He huffed irritably and stood, fighting off a yawn. Ciara nestled into the warm space he’d left behind and dragged a blanket off the back of the couch over her. Her eyes drooped shut as soon as her head hit the pillow, and the last thing she heard before she faded into sleep was the click of her bedroom door closing down the hall. 

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam wakes up, but he's being a MASSIVE dick about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some serious angst, and a fair bit of blood. 
> 
> TW: Canon-typical violence, sexism, addiction (Sam's addiction to demon blood), graphic violence, death descriptions

**Chapter 5**

_ Clearwater County, MN _

_ January 22nd, 2009 _

**Dean**

Dean really shouldn’t have been surprised in hindsight. Ciara had warned him, after all, and even though he liked to think he was from the Midwest, Kansas winters had  _ nothing _ on Minnesota. That still didn’t stop the pang in his chest when he and Ciara took her truck down to the Larson place a few days later with Kathel in the backseat and he saw the state of his baby. The snowplows had finally come and gone the night before, but the local police hadn’t been through yet to clear out the bodies, and Dean wanted to be well out of town before they managed to get out there. 

They’d left Sam behind at the house. Ciara had been right - he’d been healing faster than either of them had anticipated. She planned to take out his stitches when they returned from retrieving the Impala that afternoon, and Dean was grateful for it - not only because it meant Sam was healing well (if unnaturally so), but because ever since he’d woken up he’d been a MASSIVE dick. Dean could handle the bitch faces and the passive aggressive sighs and the outbursts of “You know what, Dean?!” just fine. Those were the norm for them, but the newest developments had set his teeth on edge. The way Sam waspishly snapped at anyone who tried to talk to him rubbed Dean the wrong way, and his relentless pacing around the cabin was getting on everyone’s nerves. 

His brother had burst through the haze of Ciara’s spell in the middle of the night two days ago. He’d come out of it fighting mad, and Ciara and Dean had burst through the door of the guest room to find him raging and staggering around the room. Dean clenched at the memory of the bright blood blossoming through the bandages on his brother’s neck. 

In the end, it had taken both of them to put him back down. Sam either couldn’t or wouldn’t listen to anything they’d said, and it eventually took physical force on Dean’s part to wrestle him to the ground. Hair raising howls had echoed down the hallway from Ciara’s workroom where Kathel had been shut for the night. The sounds had rapidly morphed into hellish snarling when Sam had thrown Ciara across the room. Several of her own stitches had burst when she hit the wall. Dean had been about ready to deck his brother just for that, wounded or no, but Ciara simply rolled to her knees and placed one firm hand on Sam’s forehead where Dean had pinned him to the floor. 

Sparks had floated around her and Dean felt his stomach plummet straight down to his toes. Goosebumps erupted all over his body and his ears popped, like there had been a change in pressure. Sam had slumped over in his arms, finally breathing peacefully. As soon they had settled Sam in bed, the strength seemed to drain from Ciara and she stumbled, bracing herself on the bedside table. 

“ _ First aid kit,”  _ she’d ground out between gritted teeth, and he’d bolted to the bathroom cupboard without question.

Thankfully none of Dean’s stitches had torn and he was left only with a residual ache in his shoulder from the tussle with Sam. He had tried to tell Ciara to rest and let him patch up his brother, had even released Kathel from where he’d been trying to tear down the workroom door. He’d hoped that the sight of her familiar would knock some sense into her, but the stubborn woman had told them both in no uncertain terms to fuck off and let the professional work. It wasn’t until she had staggered back into the living room that Dean saw how much the incident had drained her. She could barely stand. 

He knew she was hurt bad when she let him fix the broken stitches. 

Dean gritted his teeth at the memory of the blood welling around the jagged half-moon shape of the stitched wound in her shoulder. She’d leaned her head into his shoulder and let him guide her to the couch, let him peel off her shirt and the bandages beneath, let him fix the torn stitches and skin as best he could. She’d let him smooth fresh bandages down the long line of her neck and shoulder, let him lower her onto her back with her hair falling over the side of the couch blazing copper in the firelight, and - 

“Dean, what in the hell are you thinkin’ about, man?” Ciara smirked at him from the driver’s seat. 

Dean snorted. 

“Just still sore is all,” he lied, before realizing she’d probably see through that in a second. Luckily she seemed to be too preoccupied with maneuvering her truck through the snow to question him. 

“You took the ibuprofen this morning, right?” she asked. 

“Yeah, yeah - it’s from the other night, sleepin’ on the floor,” he said offhandedly. Ciara arched an eyebrow but she didn’t push him, and thank God for that - it had been embarrassing enough when she woke up topless the next morning because Dean hadn’t wanted to tear the new stitches he’d placed by raising her arms to put her in a new shirt. She’d been damn near unresponsive by the time he’d finished with her shoulder. When he couldn’t rouse her, he’d worriedly pressed two fingers on the pulse point at her throat and sighed in relief when her heart beat strong beneath his fingertips. He’d dragged a blanket and pillow out of her bedroom and laid them on the floor beside the couch with Kathel on his heels. 

Just in case, he’d told himself, stretching out on his side to face her as his eyes drifted closed. 

Just in case. 

“Looks like you’re gonna be hurting again tomorrow,” Ciara laughed as she parked the truck behind a massive pile of snow on the side of the road. Horror crept in as Dean realized that the heap of snow in front of them was, in fact, the Impala. 

_ If we hadn’t burned him, Dad would be rolling in his grave.  _ Dean groaned as he swung out of the truck beside Ciara and took the snow shovel she tossed him. 

It was going to be a long morning. 

**Ciara**

Ciara was ready to beat the shit out of someone. 

Patients like Dean had been a dime a dozen at the hospital she’d worked at down in Rochester - farm boys caught in a combine, stubborn as Hell and filled with some small-town backwoods notion of chivalry. Granted, Dean would probably land a right hook on anyone who accused him of chivalry, but there was still a sweetness there, a respect for Ciara and her work as a healer and a hunter. He had a temper to be sure, but his complaints were  _ never _ targeted at her skill. He routinely accused her of mother-henning, but it was never out of a place of mistrust due to her gender. 

As a profession, if it could be called that, hunting was heavily male dominated. Sexism, therefore, was rampant, and female hunters had to work twice as hard to be taken half as seriously by their male counterparts. She’d expected Dean to be no different, had mentally prepared herself to defend her capabilities even after taking out the majority of the nest, but there had been no need. If she was being honest, it was a refreshing change of pace from her usual interactions with male hunters. 

No, Dean wasn’t the problem. 

His brother, on the other hand…

Had Sam not been injured as badly as he was, Ciara would have punched the sullen pout off his face. She still might, she thought grimly as she pounded bread dough into the counter. It wasn’t the usual mulish sulking she generally expected from wounded hunters. Sam seemed to be openly hostile in a way that shocked even Dean. When he wasn’t stalking around the cabin blatantly ignoring her instructions to rest his wounded leg, he was snapping viciously at them both, and that was  _ without  _ the shit he’d pulled with Bobby earlier. 

She flipped the dough over and rammed it into the counter again, much harder than was necessary. The bread would be dense and tough as hell at this rate, but she didn’t care. She and Dean had returned from digging out the Impala a couple hours earlier completely exhausted, muscles humming with fatigue and cheeks reddened by the cold. Sam’s door had slammed down the hall as soon as they walked in the door. They’d grudgingly been prepared to let him sulk in peace until the phone rang. 

“ _ What the hell, Sam?!” _ Bobby swore as soon as Ciara picked up the phone. 

“Bobby? What did he do?” Ciara asked. Dean looked up from where he’d perched on a barstool at the counter. Ciara put the phone on speaker and set it on the counter between them, arms crossed over her chest. 

“Bobby? You’re on speaker, what happened?” Deak asked, interrupting a rather vivid string of profanity from the older hunter. 

“Yer brother told me to fuck off, that’s what he did. I called to check in on you guys and tell you to git yer asses back south as soon as you can to deal with a bunch of weird disappearances down in Knoxville. Sam had some  _ real _ colorful shit to say about Ciara not lettin’ him leave, makin’ him lay around and shit,” Bobby spat, incensed.

“Oh,  _ did he, _ ” Ciara observed calmly, her voice ominously quiet. Sparks erupted and danced in the air around her, and her spine crackled. Dean swore and dropped his head into his hands.

“Idjit went off about how this is why he don’t work with women unless he has to. Said they get knocked around a little bit and they’re down for a week. Told him he was full of shit and he’d better watch his tone, and he told me to shove it up my ass and  _ hung up on me _ ! What the  _ hell  _ is goin’ on with Sam?!” 

By the time Bobby finished with his tirade, Ciara was  _ fuming _ . There was an audible crackle in the air around them, and she could see the goosebumps erupting on Dean’s forearms. 

“God fucking damn it. He’s been like this for the past two days. We don’t know what the fuck kind of stick he’s got shoved up his ass, but I’ll handle it, Bobby,” Dean promised curtly, running a hand through his hair. With that, he hung up.

“ _ You’ll _ handle it?” Ciara seethed. Dean shot her a sideways glance. His eyes widened and in her hyper-sensitive state she could see the pulse point at his throat jump wildly. He sat still, hardly daring to breathe, and she realized - he was  _ afraid _ of her. She knew what he must be seeing - eyes burning gold, nostrils flaring, sparks flying sharp and chaotic from her fingertips. Ciara forced her eyes down and stormed over to the pantry. 

“Maybe you  _ should  _ handle it,” she said quietly, not trusting herself to handle the situation without pulverizing Sam. She opened the pantry and stood staring at the contents while she took long, slow breaths, imagining the calm washing over her body from her fingertips inwards. She pulled the heavy canisters of flour and sugar out of the pantry, standing on her tiptoes to reach the oil on the top shelf. When she turned back around, she could see the goosebumps leave his skin. His eyes were no longer widened in fear, but narrowed in rage when he turned towards the hallway. A switch flipped, and she could see his flight instinct turn to fight. 

“Oh,  _ I’ll handle it _ ,” he gritted out, and stomped down the hallway. After about ten minutes of muffled back and forth shouting, Dean had furiously stormed back into the living room, swiped the keys to the Impala off the counter and taken off. She hadn’t seen Sam since, but everything had been suspiciously quiet since then. Ciara had decided to take the high road and wait for Dean to return before she beat the shit out of his brother. Or took his stitches out - whichever came first. 

Ciara pounded the dough into the counter one last time before she shaped it roughly and set it on a baking tray to rise. 

Damn. 

She was out of things to hit. 

Kathel raised an eyebrow at her from where he’d taken up residence on the couch, sensing the simmering rage beneath her calm facade. Ciara threw him a sour look and stalked back to the pantry. 

It had been awhile since she’d made cinnamon rolls…

**Sam**

Sam knotted his fingers deep into his hair and pulled hard, the sharp points of his elbows crushing into his thighs where he sat crouched over the edge of the bed. 

It hurt. Good. 

The pain brought clarity, but only for a moment. An itch had settled deep into his body, so far he couldn’t reach it no matter how hard he clawed at his skin, and God knew he’d tried. The deep welts spiderwebbed across his calves and ribcage spoke to his efforts. He’d wiped away the thin trickles of blood that had seeped out, and he knew that soon the pinkish smears across his skin would be the only testament to the self-inflicted violence. Thank God for demon blood and superhuman healing, he supposed. 

He crushed his teeth into his knuckles, trying to just ride it out like Ruby had told him. His burner phone had been crushed under his weight in the fight with the vamps, and he’d had to steal the landline when Dean and Ciara were back in the workroom the previous afternoon. Not that it had helped. Of  _ course _ Ruby couldn’t get up here. Of  _ course _ it wouldn’t have mattered anyway because he was snowed into a cabin in the middle of buttfuck nowhere. Of  _ course _ Ciara had warded the ever-loving shit out of her place with magic that even Ruby wouldn’t touch. 

It had been weeks since his last hit. He hadn’t seen Ruby since they’d worked that cursed vanity mirror out in Valentine, Nebraska, and that had been nearly three weeks ago. He wouldn’t have been hit so hard with the cravings if he hadn’t lost so much blood in the fight, and whatever the hell Ciara had given him had sharpened the ache that much more. 

Stupid fucking  _ witch _ . 

Except she wasn’t, and Sam knew that. He knew there was nothing wrong with her, that she was a kick ass hunter and a kick ass nurse and she’d done more for him than Dean ever would have been able to. Sam knew that he would have died without her, knew that his lifeblood would have drip-drip-dripped between the floorboards until the vampires sucked it off their fingers like a starving child sucking the marrow out of a cracked chicken bone. The cold would have stiffened his joints until they were brittle and aching, and frost would have clouded his eyes as they stared wide and unseeing into Hell, into death. 

Because redemption didn’t wait for him any more, not after what he’d done. 

He’d given the ultimate  _ fuck you _ to God, had fucked a goddamn  _ demon _ , had sucked purple bruises into her neck and vibrant blood from her wrist, and it had been so  _ easy _ . All Ruby had had to do was offer, and he’d taken everything she’d given, down to the last drop. She kept him coming like a whipped dog with his tail between his legs, and he hated it, he  _ hated _ it. 

But if there was a chance that he could save people doing what he was doing, he had to take it. 

Dean would have taken it. 

And in the months after he’d been dragged into the Pit, after Sam had buried his brother in a pinewood box, in the months before Dean had clawed his way gasping out of Hell, that was all Sam had had. He’d rotted his liver and brain with cheap whiskey that burned his eyes when he drank it straight out of the grimy plastic jug he’d bought it in. He’d tortured and flayed and burned every last demon he could get his hands on. He’d screamed himself hoarse in countless empty cornfields, had hurled promises and bargains and threats and  _ rage _ into the stars, into the maw of an uncaring universe. 

Dean had wanted him to save people, to keep doing the job, but he wasn’t  _ strong enough _ , not even to keep his brother safe. So when Ruby had offered herself to him, the lines on her wrist dripping scarlet into the dirt, it had been easy.  _ Never again,  _ she’d promised.  _ Never again,  _ he’d sworn, latching onto her like a life raft in a hurricane. 

But Dean was back now, and things should have been different. Sam had tried to stop, he really had, but it was too late, and addiction festered beneath his skin. He was  _ so sick _ of lying, of surviving on the essence of sin. The only decent sleep he got was when Ruby rocked him deep into the mattress, swept him away from the feeling of fire ants swarming his brain when it had been too long since his last fix, dragged him deeper into damnation with every mouthful she gave. 

With and without it, Sam was vicious. 

With it, he dragged demons from their vessels and wrestled them into the pit. He was damn near soulless, heartless and clinical in ways that scared him. Without it, he cussed and snapped and hurt everyone in his path. He  _ knew  _ it was wrong, knew Dean and Ciara and Bobby had only checked on him out of love, but he couldn’t stop the violent words punching out of his mouth. The worst part was that the longer he went without a fix, the less he cared. 

Tomorrow, he decided. 

Tomorrow he was hauling ass out of here with or without Dean. 

But until then…

He pressed his thumb hard against the stitches on the inside of his thigh. The wound had mostly closed, the stitches mostly unnecessary, but he dug the edge of his fingernail into the wound anyway. He dragged the pad of his thumb through the blood that welled up and brought it to his lips. It tasted  _ wrong _ , but maybe he could trick his body into thinking it was getting what it needed. Just for a little longer, he soothed himself. 

Just until tomorrow. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean goes for a drive, and when he comes back Ciara is in a VERY good mood...up until the topic of Sam comes up, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nostalgia, childhood memories, and the start of something new. 
> 
> TW: PTSD/panic attack

**Chapter 6**

_Clearwater County, MN_

_January 22nd, 2009_

**Dean**

Not for the first time, Dean cursed the snow, the wind, and the entire state of Minnesota, because he was too furious to even begin to touch the thought of cursing Sam yet. The bounty of the most recent blizzard had settled thick and wet on the road, even where the plows had come through. Dean drove north, gunning it til he hit a highway that carried him west. Thick grey clouds scudded across the sky, so thick it barely made a difference when the sun dipped below the treeline across the countless identical fields that lined the asphalt. 

Weak winter sunlight gave way to the watery grey shadows of dusk, and he let the road take him, let it lull him into peace. Nameless small towns flew past the windows, but he barely registered them. Towns like these were the same the whole country over - churches with the paint flaking off the steeples that proclaimed the second coming of Christ sat in solidarity with the cigarette-stained bars across the street that proclaimed the miracle of a two-for-one Budweiser special. He didn’t even realize he’d crossed the state line until he passed a billboard for a mom-and-pop diner off the next exit that boasted of the “Best Lefse in North Dakota!”. 

By the time he found his way back to Ciara’s cabin, it was pitch black and he’d gotten lost twice. Roads up here were like that, he’d learned. On the surface it looked like the same rigid grid work of farmland and asphalt that spread across the entire Midwest, but for every country two-lane that stretched straight ahead into the horizon, there was a deer track of a dirt road that cut through miles and miles of trees so thick they blocked out the sky. Not that it would have mattered anyway in Ciara’s neck of the woods - night up here fell fast and hard, dropping a shroud over the world that was damn near impenetrable. Didn’t seem to change much either except for the clearest nights, and then…well. 

Once, when Sam and Dean had been barely nine and five, their dad had taken them up to the Boundary Waters on a hunt. Well - Dad was on a hunt. The boys had been stuck in some crappy little hunting cabin with coloring books and scratchy flannel sheets and a pellet stove that stung their eyes and throats when they lit it during the chilly November nights. John Winchester had been tracking a Wendigo, but when he’d finished the job he’d come back to the cabin. He had shaken the boys awake, smelling like whiskey and lighter fluid, and bundled them up in his old flannel shirts and fleece lined jackets. He’d brought them outside to where he had a campfire crackling cheerfully. They’d made s’mores for the first time, licking burnt sugar off sticky fingers. Dad had wet a thumb in his mouth and, laughing, used it to wipe a smear of chocolate off Sammy’s face. It was the best night of Dean’s life.

And then he’d looked up to the stars. 

He’d never seen anything like it before. It was the first time he’d noticed that the night sky wasn’t black, not when there weren’t cheap neon lights in the way. The sky flickered green and yellow, tendrils of color that danced across the heavens to the heartbeat of creation. They shimmered over the stars, more of them than Dean had ever seen, even when Uncle Bobby let them go camping in the backyard and stay up late and make up stories about the shapes they picked out in the skies. 

“Is Mom up there?” Sammy had asked, nestled in John’s lap. Dean whipped around, a barbed reprimand leaping from his tongue - _don’t you ever, ever, talk about Mom -_ but it died before the words left his mouth. John was hugging Sammy tight to him, eyes shimmering as he stared into the sky. Dean knew he wasn’t there with them anymore, not really. John was slow-dancing in his mind through memories of Mary, of the love of his life and the other half of his soul. His whispered reply caught Dean off guard. 

“I think so, Sammy. I think so,” he’d murmured, pressing a kiss into Sam’s hair. He wordlessly held out his other arm for Dean, and even though he was getting too old for it, Dean had pressed into the warmth of his dad’s leather jacket, one arm tucked between them and the other wrapped tight around Sammy. In the dying light of the fire, they’d watched Mary dance across the heavens for them, graceful and vibrant and finally, finally undying. She may have lived and loved and died in Kansas, but the skies of Minnesota pulled Dean closer to his mother every time he saw them. 

Dean shook himself back into the present as he stomped the snow off his boots on the porch of Ciara’s cabin. Tonight, the skies were dull black, overpowering and all consuming and so, _so_ cold, and he eagerly pushed into the light and warmth of the cabin. He was hit with a pleasant wave of cinnamon-sugar-cloves, of fresh baked bread and chicken soup bubbling on the stove and _home_ above all else. 

He almost didn’t want to leave tomorrow, especially when he saw the woman who had saved his life sashay across the kitchen. She was swaying gently to a tune floating from the speakers. Dean quickly recognized it and snorted in laughter. Ciara turned to face him with a wooden spoon in one hand and flour smeared across the bridge of her nose, her eyes bright and warm. 

“Creedence fan, huh?” he said, draping his coat over a bar stool. Ciara wrinkled her nose, grinned, and twirled her finger in the air wordlessly. The music flared louder without her touch, and Ciara mouthed the words as she sashayed closer to him. 

_I put a spell on you, because you’re mine…_

Dean was mesmerized. Tendrils of copper hair fell around her face from the messy bun sitting atop her head. And her eyes...God, her eyes. For a moment, he could have sworn they glowed amber, like coming home to sunshine slanting through a bottle of bourbon. For a moment, she held him captive with a look, and he would have bent himself back over Alastair’s rack if it meant he could memorize every fleck of gold glittering in the warm light of the kitchen. For a moment, he wanted as much as breath itself to feel the heat and strength of that wild-honey gaze, half drunk on sex and want and _need_.

_You better stop the things that you’re doin’..._

And then she gave him a delicious little smirk and stepped into his space and without even thinking about it, he leaned into her, desperate to breathe the same air as the temptress standing before him. Freckles danced across her face, even in the winter, and her eyes crinkled at the edges like she could read every desire spinning hot and dirty through his mind. Dean let one of his hands wander to her hip, ghosting over the finger-width of smooth, bare skin between the rough denim of her jeans and soft cotton of her shirt. 

_I said watch out, I ain’t lyin’..._

The little gasp Ciara made when her breath caught at his touch shot straight down between Dean’s thighs. That delicious little smirk turned playful, and Dean was about to lean in and kiss it off those pretty lips when the wooden spoon in Ciara’s other hand snaked up and rapped him smartly on the nose, making him blink in surprise. 

_I ain’t gonna take none of your foolin’ around..._

“Play nice,” Ciara murmured, and sashayed back over to the stove. 

**Ciara**

Oh, Gods, she was in trouble. Ciara stirred the chicken soup absently, hiding both a smirk and a growing wave of apprehension as she listened to Dean shake himself out of the lust-fuelled haze to which they’d both nearly succumbed. She didn’t know if she was ready to move on, not ready, but Dean made it _so_ damn easy to want that. 

At first, she’d been teasing. Her anger had finally started to settle down somewhere around the second rising of the cinnamon rolls. Deboning the chicken she’d been thawing had helped too, and by the time she started boiling down the meat and bones for chicken stock she’d felt much more like herself. There was probably something clinical she was missing with Sam, she mused as she chopped potatoes and onions to add to the soup. From what Dean and Bobby had said, this was completely unusual behavior for Sam. Maybe a bad reaction to something she was giving him? 

With that in mind, she decided to forgo Sam’s usual evening dose of the honey lavender brew. She just didn’t know enough about what was going on with Sam’s whole...superhuman thing. He wasn’t exactly your average patient. Maybe the purifying spell she wove into the brew was working against his body, causing agitation and irritability where it normally fostered calm and rest. She’d sensed something demonic in Sam, after all, something she couldn’t place, and if she was trying to use a purifying spell…

Well, she could talk it over with Dean when he returned. Sam was either resting or sulking in the guest bedroom - she wasn’t too sure she cared which at the moment. Her anger might have abated, yes, but after the comments he’d made to Bobby she wasn’t sure she wanted to deal with him yet. So she stirred the soup and she swayed to the music and she slipped Kathel tender morsels of chicken, and when she felt the twinge in her wards alerting her that Dean had pulled into the driveway, she smiled to herself. 

It had been playful for her at first when she’d turned up the music. Cooking calmed and contented her like little else, and she was basking in the glow of good company and good food and good music. So when she swayed over to Dean mouthing the lyrics of the song with no small amount of irony, it most _definitely_ hadn’t been with the intent to get so close, but when she had gotten closer... _oh._

She’d sensed the lust swirling about him the way she might swirl the last mouthful of red wine around the bottom of the glass before tipping it down her throat. His eyes lingered on hers, and emboldened by his desire, Ciara’s body made her decision for her. She’d felt the heat burning off him, drawn the scent of leather and spice over her tongue, and she took a step forward. 

She met his half-lidded gaze, surprised at the intensity of it. His eyelashes ghosted over his cheekbones as he searched her face, and firelight caught the gold-toned stubble on the sharp line of his jaw. The pink tip of his tongue darted out to wet his lips. She traced the shape of them with her eyes, tempted to follow the path with her fingers, with her lips - 

Rough, warm fingers grazed the bare skin of her hip. Her breath hitched and goosebumps spread rapidly, and _oh,_ the feeling it sent shooting through her core nearly undid her. She hadn’t been touched like this since…

Since Lyssa. 

And all at once, the reality of their positions crashed into her. She wanted him to lean in, to kiss her rough and make her _feel_ , but...not yet. 

The wooden spoon in her hand proved useful for breaking the spell between them. She gave him a few minutes to compose himself before she tossed a smile at him over her shoulder. 

“Set the table, would you?” She pointed at a cupboard with her spoon. Dean shook his head, laughing, and winked at her as he squeezed past. The laughter died off rapidly as he stood in front of the open cupboard, and she looked over at him quizzically. 

“Did you talk to Sam?” He asked, not turning to face her. Ciara stared intently into the soup, choosing her words carefully. 

“No...I figured I should let him rest. Didn’t know how to respond to what he told Bobby without getting too intense,” she commented carefully. She set the spoon down on the counter and turned the burner off beneath the soup, shooting a glance at Dean. A muscle jumped in his jaw, and he was glaring at a stack of plates without seeing them at all. Ciara took a deep breath and toyed with the hem of the dish towel slung over her shoulder. 

“Y’know, I actually think I might’ve figured out what’s going on with-” 

_BANG._

The sound sent Ciara flying to the other side of the kitchen island before she could form a conscious thought. Her breath came tight, panting, hot. Her eyes flashed rapidly around the kitchen, desperately searching for the threat. Her animal instincts took over - _dangerfightrun -_ she couldn’t find the danger, couldn’t _see -_

She faintly registered a low, soothing voice. It eased smooth and slow like molasses into the cracks between the fractured pieces of her panic. She clung to it desperately, clawed her way back to the surface, back to the present. When the pieces of her world fell back into place and she came back to herself, she was crouched in a fighting stance with a white-knuckle grip on a boning knife. Dean stood on the other side of the kitchen island, crouched low to make himself smaller, less of a threat. Both of his hands were out, palms splayed open and careful. 

“Woah, hey, you’re okay. You’re at home, it’s me, Dean, you’re safe with me, I promise -” 

Ciara looked down to the boning knife in her hand and let it fall to the kitchen counter. Her gaze fell to the floor and she felt her cheeks redden. She felt the pounding rush in her chest and curled her hands into fists. The sharp pain of her nails digging white crescents into her knuckles brought her fully into the present, and the shame rose unbidden in her chest. She was only human, she knew, but she was one of the best hunters in the Midwest. She’d worked at the goddamn _Mayo Clinic._ Not a week ago, she’d sprinted headfirst into a nest of creatures that had damn near killed her, and now a _noise_ had damn near startled her into fight-or-flight in front of another _hunter -_

“Gods - sorrysorrysorry I’m sorry Dean, I-” 

“No, hey, hey, it’s okay,” he said, soft and sweet, just for her. He edged around the side of the counter, and when she didn’t protest, he stepped tentatively into her space. 

“I shouldn’t’a slammed the cupboard shut like that, I just…” he trailed off, staring down at her fists clenched at her sides. Ciara opened her mouth, an apology leaping from her lips, but it fell unspoken from her mind when Dean, with a surprisingly gentle touch, took her hands in his. He stroked the pads of his thumbs across the bridge of her knuckles, gently coaxing them open. Ciara tilted her head back to look up at him, searching his face. _She_ was the fucked up one here, the one who’d gotten scared of a goddamn cupboard, the weakest excuse for a hunter - 

“It wasn’t you. You hear me? It wasn’t you. You got nothin’ to be sorry for, darlin’, okay?” He murmured, and Gods, if Ciara didn’t sink headfirst into the honeycomb sweet warmth that welled in her chest at that. She bit her lip and dropped her gaze from his, suddenly overwhelmed but not wanting him to stop. Dean guided her hands up to his chest and pulled her close into heat and flannel and spice-leather-coffee, folding around her like a blanket pulled fresh from the dryer. 

“Is this okay?” He whispered into the crook of her neck, and Ciara nodded wordlessly against his chest, because how could she think, how could she _speak,_ folded in his arms like this? Dean splayed one hand over her shoulder blade and stroked the pad of his thumb in a sweeping arc that melted the tension from her body with every stroke. 

**Dean**

Dean couldn’t have said how long they stood like that, breathing each other in. He felt Ciara melt under his touch, and under any other circumstances his mind would have taken off running in the direction of the bedroom, but...he didn’t need that. Not from her, not right now. Even when he could feel the last of the panic leave her, neither of them moved away, neither willing to admit that they _needed this._ Humans are social creatures, and hunting was a lonely job. Even hunting with Sam, it was lonely. Companionship was one thing, but physical touch was another, and Sam and Dean didn’t exactly have the most affectionate relationship in the world. 

He hadn’t meant to scare her, swear to God. It was just...the fight he’d had with Sam earlier had accomplished nothing. There was something _so obviously_ wrong. His brother was hurting and Dean couldn’t stop it, but Sam was so uncharacteristically tight-lipped on the issue that no one could help him, and Dean couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t just _tell him_. 

Christ, they didn’t have to have a fucking heart-to-heart about it. Had it been just the two of them, Dean might have left it alone, but he’d been lashing out at Bobby and Ciara for days, and Dean had had enough. All Sam would tell him was that he “wouldn’t understand”, that he just wanted to get on the road and didn’t need to be “laying around for fucking days while some backwoods Wicca reject keeps forcing blessed honey down my throat”. 

Dean hadn’t meant to slam the cupboard door so hard. It honestly wasn’t Ciara’s fault - it was his own damn fault. He knew better than that. As rough and brutal as hunters were, every single one of them had scars that ran deeper than blood, deeper than bone, and with those scars came triggers. The ones that didn’t have instincts sharper than their senses didn’t live long. To the untrained eye, one might think that hunters as a group just startled easy, but that wasn’t the whole truth. 

It was battle instinct he’d seen in Ciara. She’d been ready to fight, ready to kill, ready to survive. 

He’d been there himself more times than he could count. 

And so he held her, breathed her in, let the heat of his body and stroke of his thumb bring her back from the brink. 

And if there was a heat in the look they shared when Ciara finally pulled away from him, he carefully put it out of his mind. 

And if, in the weeks on the road that followed, Dean let the amber-cinnamon-clove scented memory of it lull him back to sleep when he jerked to consciousness rigid and sweating and alone in the night, tormented by dreams of Hell…

Well, no one needed to know. 


	7. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude from Sam's point of view before we return to the season 4 storyline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Addiction, demon-blood addiction

**Chapter 7 (Interlude)**

_ Hudson, WI - Roscoe, IL _

_ January 23rd, 2009 _

**Sam**

The itch in his brain had finally settled somewhat, but Sam was still seriously fighting the urge to tear his skin off in strips just to feel something other than the craving. Ciara, thank God, had finally quit giving him the honey shit last night, and when they’d set out this morning the cravings had been almost bearable. He’d felt well enough to be  _ horrified _ at his behavior the past couple of days. When Ciara knocked on his door this morning to take his stitches out and offer breakfast and coffee before they set out, Sam had fallen over himself apologizing. 

She and Dean had both raised their eyebrows at him, but he’d been completely sincere at the time. He wanted more than anything to stop the venomous words dripping from his tongue for the past couple days, but all he could feel was the burning ache, the desperation for another hit. Ciara had kept giving him “something to help”, but every time he’d downed the concoction the cravings had come back a dozen times stronger until all he could do was lay in bed clutching his skull, damn near sobbing into the pillow. 

When she’d stopped giving it to him, he had finally,  _ finally _ passed out in blessed exhaustion. His dreams were tormented, bloody, desperate, but when he woke he could at least tolerate the craving enough to pretend he was just still recovering from the fight with the vamps. After nearly five hours in the car with Dean with nothing to distract him though, he’d started digging his thumb into the wound on his thigh. He needed to feel something,  _ anything,  _ but he could  _ smell _ the spots of blood dotting his jeans, and that was it. He finally snapped just after they crossed the border into Wisconsin. 

Dean, assuming he was still just feeling the after-effects of the concoction Ciara had given him, pulled off at a gas station in Hudson. While he was filling up the tank, Sam slipped around the corner of the building to stretch his legs with one of the new burner phones he and Dean had picked up at a Wal-Mart in Bemidji

“ _ I need more,” _ he gasped into the phone the second Ruby picked up. 

“Just tell me where and when,” Ruby smirked. 

They stopped for the night in Roscoe, Illinois - an unremarkable little down just south of the Wisconsin border. They’d barely shuffled through the door of their room at the Pinewood Motel when Dean stumbled out of his jeans, shoved a knife under his pillow and flopped face first into the mattress. It barely took ten minutes for him to start snoring. 

Thank God. 

Sam crept across the icy parking lot. He didn’t register the -14 degree windchill - didn’t even turn his collar up or shove his hands in his pockets. All that mattered was - 

_ There.  _

Ruby stood just outside the puddle of light spilling from the window of a room several doors down. He caught the glint of a blade in her hand as she smirked unrepentantly at him and swung open the door, and it was all he could do to keep from sprinting headlong across the parking lot. The craving set his lungs on fire, made his teeth ache and every cell in his body throb with anticipation - 

He came back to himself nearly an hour and a half later. Ruby was draped over his bare chest, her sin-black hair fanning over his shoulder. One slender arm was settled over his belly, and he could see the purple-red bruises he’d sucked into the skin around the wound she’d made. Streaks of faded blood smeared the sheets around their entwined bodies.

He should have hated himself then, like he usually did after his encounters with the demon. 

He rolled the taste of copper and salt around his mouth, trailed his fingers down the spine of the woman draped across him. 

All he felt was sated. 


End file.
